Coffee

I'm sipping the long overdue cup,
staring at this screen, wondering: why?
Why is it that this mug
filled with rich, dark essence
can keep me sane each day?

Fingers slowly flex, then dance
after just half of that first draught.
The sun doesn't appear overly optimistic,
the sky's blue no longer depresses,
the birds are no longer annoying.

The stuff works deeper into me,
thawing the soul, activating imagination
stirring my hopes back up
and yet, calming me down
from hating the universe for being...
morning people.

Stretching out, sipping and smoking pipe
I let my internal janitor
clear away the cobwebs and clouds
that the night left inside
as the java finds my skull.

The knee feels better after a cup,
the back loosens up enough to bend
and everything begins to mellow.
Others say I'm spinning up
they've never tasted my "dawn desperation".

The stories and ideas flow,
having percolated with the joy juice,
stirred up by just that aroma
filling space around and in me
with hope and some measure of patience...
I freaking hope.

Few laud their mornings like I,
who remembers the cold nights
and that first cup, when I had cash,
to thaw out after sleeping outside
when there was no other place.

It is my one, true wife,
the thing I cannot separate from
save when I mess about with my mistress
that ugly habit of smoking a pipe
of equally rich, black tobacco.

Others can mock me,
friends can tease me,
family hides until that cup is drank,
and the world best not irritate me,
for only coffee and tobacco allow me...
to persevere.

Now, get the hell out of my way,
my cup is empty, and needs refilling.
8September2014 - Dyfedd Rex, on a Moaner's Day.

Surfing the Couches - A poem of the streets and time off them both.

Riding the wave of couches

Offered freely, without prompting,
the wave beckoned to me
calling thoughts of warmth and comfort,
so I took the challenge on,
riding waves of couches.

During the cold Winters,
we Homeless often gain such,
a period of hospitality greatly treasured
when we "Couch surf" nightly
to avoid being frozen.

Each couch has stories,
each offer backed with cheer
or made out of some deeper fear
that we will not see
the next day's light.

So, we climb on,
grateful for this strange tide
of cushions, pillows and treasured quilts
dreading the inevitable end ahead
when we fall back.

for the streets kill
during the dark winter months
taking toll even on the living
sapping us of better things
like willpower and life.

For three glorious weeks
I avoided the nightly chill
for the most part, with gratitude
as floors and couches offered
ran into each other.

It started just before
the holiday of great feasts
a weekend off, and some more
five days, when all's told
not shivering through nights.

Then came bigger wave
when across three places offered
a week and half of couches
got surfed by this boy
as he stayed upright.

It ended at last
with four days of camping
amid the near zero nightly chill
brought on by an inversion,
heralded with Smog's veils.

But still, in all,
It was a good run,
time to decompress, regroup, and renew
my faith in humanity's future,
as well as mine.

So, thanks for offers
worry not at my disappearances
from my normal haunts those nights,
for I rode those couches
to remove the worries...
... and thaw out a bit.
16December2013 - Dyfedd Rex, with thanks.

Anger Has a Rumble - A poem of the streets, too late, sadly

Like thunder,
Anger hath a rumble
one heard
in quiet whispered conversations
around town,
on the prime corners,
the Library,
and elsewhere, that carry.

Linked above
is a sad story,
of dangers
that abound down there,
Hell's Block
as I've called it.
A man
stabbed in the head.

The media
say he is alive
but Rumor
says he wasn't then,
and speed
was not something used,
such calls
being often nothing ther.

Despite outcome,
there is that rumble,
Tempers flaring
about how it went.
It's Rumor,
but still, does not
every Rumor
build around some Truth?

Spice Monkey
or some mad tweaker,
betting goes,
on who it is.
Those working
alsoe move those hours
and that
stirs the Anger more.

Until Truth,
or passes as such
around there,
comes out, none know.
Save victim,
perp, and few others
too scared
to talk to Police.

We live
amid this mad violence
every day,
damned into such fate
by Society
that acts towards us
as if
we don't matter anymore.

I report
only what I hear,
and cannot
rely on the veracity
of whispers
but that Anger echoes
up streets
from Hell's Block now.

We'll survive,
at least some wil,
but now
you get an idea
why some
choose not to go
down there,
to avoid such things.

The campers
all speak of it.
The surfers
scramble for another couch
to avoid
what will surely come
and soon,
another crackdown, too late.

There's trouble
on the streets lately,
younger ones
who have nothing left
but Rage
that boils out suddenly,
without provocation
other than slights perceived.

And all
walk a bir uneasy
for now
we know for sure
that those
who rage about town
may really
be ready to fight...
... and kill.

3October2013 - Dyfedd Rex, who walks carefully tonight.
Due to this:
http://www.sltrib.com/sltrib/news/56949564-78/amp-police-lake-salt.html.csp

The Addicts - A Poem of the Streets

Mistaking their DT's
for chilly morning shivers,
you'll see them bundled up,
even those rare warm Autumn days
when the mercury rests higher
than their coats indicate
as they wander.

You know them
by their dirty blankets,
folded around them like skirts,
or turned into full body sheaths,
looking like grey mummy wrappings,
or a zombie's tatters,
our drugged undead.

These are the ruined souls,
spoilers for the we few
who avoided Addiction's siren song.

They wander about
twitching for many reasons;
some still riding their highs,
others crashing into detoxification's danse macabre
as their night of using
catches up to them
with a vengeance.

Mistaking their intentions,
you'll cross the street
or shift off onto grass
avoiding their haunted gazes while passing
their antics and angry displays
trying to avoid them
but still failing.

These are those cast aside
by even the most pious
for heeding Narcotics' damning call.

Some wander steady,
others stagger about slowly,
never given a moment's notice
until they collapse from severe reaction
to their dark, personal demons
in some public place
during daylight hours.

A rare few
manage with stuttering steps
to move about the park
despite levels of intoxication rarely seen
outside their own little cliques
surviving it, means unknown,
despite tempting Death.

They are just lost souls,
seeking some dark, strange release
from the pains of Life.

Many younger ones
live only short lives,
seeing this lonely, homeless life
as their long, fun, final party.
Which leaves me to ask:
Why is this so,
who crushed hope?

Even older ones
see naught but fun
in this dark ballet performed
upon the cold, bleak cement ways.
It's just a long celebration
as they slowly descend
into another Hell.

They are fogged in wanderers
drifting about amid Drugs' murk
No purpose, besides scoring highs.

There's no answer
to ending this shit.
Forgive that word, but realize,
it's the only one that fits.
For what else says it
about lives torn apart
by various Narcotics?

They are lost,
perhaps still with chances
to break their dark cycles
of abusing various substances each day,
but lacking a reason to,
or failing to see
their approaching deaths.

These are your lost children,
siblings, friends, maybe even parents.
Lost by lack of care...
...from a callous broken Society.

30September2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Thoughtfully Bemused and Thankful - A poem of weather and the streets

Today, the Lake is "on",
which means the warm waters
out to the city's west
breath out moist, dark breaths
forming clouds and rain showers
that carve the mountains down
through optical sleight of hand
to dark and long mesas
punctuated at the clouds' seams
with lone straggler island peaks,
and the big canyons spread
wide as a monster's mouth
seeking to consume the valley.
Despite the ill weather outside
the Library lays calm, abandoned,
by most of the regulars.
Perhaps the weather locked them
within other walls for today,
or they braved the elements
to fly their kites quickly
before the darkest roiling streams
off the Great Salt Lake
bring rain to the city,
ruining their weekly cash cow
of payday on a corner.
I won't need to fly,
got a helluva shock earlier,
when a stranger came up
handed me a goodies bag
and pressed fiver to palm
saying he'd been here himself.
All I can do is
say something here with reverence.
"Thanks, Pal. Every bit Helps."
And someday, hopefully, pay forward,
as I tip the hat.

27September2013 - Dyfedd Rex in thoughtful bemusement.

Scorched Earth of the Spiritual Flamethrowers of Rejections - A Poem of Jobhunting and Loathing in America

Unless you've been here
you ain't got a clue
about how it digs in
eating your soul from inside
when jobs finally reply
months after applied for
with that form rejection
saying they are moving on
with other, more qualified folks.

This is my dilemma,
the pain I deal with
as I try moving forward
only to get kicked hard
in that awkward place
that makes one walk
lopsided, even just spiritually.
Hope dies with each one,
as hate and disgust grow.

Been expecting it, really.
This total turn away
from a guy who tries
to keep his own faith
while dealing with others,
and not intruding in theirs.
Temptations abound about me,
drugs, booze, or others.
But I still drive on.

Phone is back on.
Against my better judgement,
and I have to try again,
diving into the web tomorrow
to find a job of some sort
even just something foolish
as asking about fries or drinks
to go with that entree.
Not sure I want to try.

Been nearly three years now,
and not sure I have
what it takes to come back
from this ass-whupping
I've been taking all along.
The spirit is broken,
the body is worn,
and my mind is wandering
amid dreams burnt to ashes.

Rejection is so awful,
like a spiritual flamethrower,
aimed into the heart
of each person you see
who is down on their luck.
Maybe Hump-day, perhaps,
would be better choice
to dive over this cliff
and give it another shot.

Not today, that's for sure.
Still stinging from two more
silent killer cruise missiles
launched by soulless drones
called Human Resources departments,
filled with uncaring munitions
that create scorched earth
where once hope and imagination
laid out a bright future.

Yeah, you do that damage
with each of those letters
sent to one without anything
to get by on now,
save that piece of cardboard
I promised not to hold
on some street corner
for another month or so
and give it one more try.

Then again, who knows
maybe this is the week,
month or year I break
this long losing streak.
Yeah, and perhaps this year
the Cubs have a shot,
the Utes win through
and I get a job.
Well, one out of three?
...Please?

23September2013 - Dyfedd Rex
(who's still pretty disgusted with America and society)

The grey skies arrived.
Sneaking in overnight,
cloaking the stars above
from our upward gazes
to adore Heaven's Vault.

Wet and cooler air,
aleady I see the hints
of color on the over east,
where Fall's first touch
lays out colorful dots.

Campsite was trashed
and where it wasn't,
the herd staked claims
on the little coves
where I prefer sleeping.

Cleaned what I could,
left the rest for Nature
to scrub away this week
with expected rains
these clouds promise.

This is the warning:
find a safe haven folks.
As Winter starts stretching
for his cold marathon
across us pretty soon.

Ain't where I wanted
this old boy to be
back in the spring.
No built up place,
no home in offing.

But, I enjoy cold,
as long as toes
ain't freezing until dead
or nose running constantly
to keep the pipes clear.

Third season of snows
I will spend homeless,
less the world relents
and Fate convinces Karma
I've paid for my sins.

So, when you pass by
some person holding sign
on a cold, windswept corner,
remember, it could be you
or a loved one there...

...for you're only a mistake away,
even if you don't admit it.

10September2013 - Dyfedd Rex

What Level Have I Reached - A poem of self-doubt.

There is now way I'm a pro,
not at this point in my life.
Writing is still a time-eating monster
that crawls out from under the rocks,
where I live and sleep most times,
to grab me with its broken fangs.
Revenge for using power tools when editing?

This is something I still am learning.
The stringing together of words and thoughts,
to convey where I am, my dreams,
not to mention the nightmares stalking me
as I wander the streets and libraries,
seeking a way out of my situation.
To a better life, sooner I hope.

Yet, am I still a rank amateur?
Untested by a paying byline, accepted submission
or attempt at the larger elusive game
called a book deal or story serialization?
Two poems seeing ink leave me questioning
whether to keep trying other writing ventures
or stay with what worked to date.

Semi-pro? Professional? Aspiring Writer? Or Dabbler?
Which is the title I truly deserve
at this point in my writing path?
Or is there something else floating around
to hang my hat and pride upon?
This is where I walk about now,
that place of indecision, crossroads of choice.

Poet? Author? Writer? A Storyteller? Something else?
Who knows which way I may head,
when the writing begins to pour out,
fingers dancing across these wearing out keys,
as I kill time between job applications.
Which way should I turn? I ask,
but my reflection refuses to give answer.

Things I enjoyed, now turning into chores,
yet I seem to improve each time.
I will always have the tales within
seeking release in some strange, painful way,
so I choose to press onwards, if cautious.
Seen pride take too many down fast
and God knows I am a klutz...

..prone to missteps even when walking about,
let alone when venturing into uncharted places
where your feet have no purpose treading,
let alone even existing amid stray thoughts
that seek release and semi-permanent recording
upon the dance of electrons moving quickly
along this network so very fragile.

Hell, who cares? The stories pile up,
carving their way out of my skull,
creating canyons in my head if dammed,
so open the sluice gates, releasing them
seems my only option for sanity's sake.
I will continue with this venture,
but will I step beyond? Not sure.

God may know, but He likes surprises.
18April2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Tastes of the Seasons - A Poem on Being Homeless

Each season has a flavor
when you are a vagrant
wandering the wilds and streets
seeking some solace from Nature
only eating what's airborne today.

Spring is rain's rich flavor
with hints of fresh sage
mixed into changing air masses
as the lake turns over
to add dying brine shrimp.

Smoke, dust and salt rule
during the heat of summer
when your mouth and throat
are parched like the desert
you walk the fringes of.

The turning of leaves comes
bringing in decay and fear
to set up shop inside
where your hope dies also
with the denuding of trees.

Winter holds strange dark tang
loaded in by smog's blanket
wrapped over and into valleys
as snow falls in showers
that barely clear the air.

And all hold the same
the tart hint of fear
that lace my leaden tongue
preventing me seeking love
or even a simple companion.

Overlaying it now with anxiety
whose sour aftertaste rises up
after each job never materializing
despite positive things said glibly
to me after an interview.

These are my seasons, indeed,
as I walk along highways
down dark and dangerous alleys
or climb into the foothills
for a night of slumber.

Each holds something so unique
but common to my locale
unless distant events load winds
to bring other things here
reminding me I'm not alone...
         ...until I find a home.

Restoration via the Park - A Poem of Walking Amid Life

I find my daily bit of peace
walking through and about the park
just absorbing the calm from life
feeling the breeze soothing my torn soul
as my smile returns watching waterfowl
who wander about on land and pond
and Nature herself speaks inside my heart
reminding me I am a living being.

The green of grass and trees soothes
as the flames of anger dampen slowly
stirred before by foolish things all do
not just others, but this idiot also
as I keep trying too hard to suceed
not seeing that life can be won slowly
until here amid naught but fresh air
the soft ground reminds me of joy.

Life has its burdens we all bear
but in a park you can find
a place to lay them down briefly
and reconnect with that joy once felt
when as a kid you came here
by watching others around you relishing it
or just finding moments of near silence
that allow your sanity and innocence restoration.

(24May2012 - Dyfedd Rex)

Are We Gods Now? - A poem the family will appreciate a bit more.

Its a family tradition
one of many we have
teasing each other mercilessly
over meals ruined so disastrously
despite best laid plans
and hours of preparations invested.

The alarm sounds loud
signaling dinner is ready now
smoke billowing all over
as the house is choked
upon the fumes raised
in praise of the gods.

Grandpa used to ask, Are we now gods?
to receive the burnt offerings from the altar?
As the fire trucks rolled up neighbors laughed
It wasn't a family dinner without two alarms.
But in the end, we ate it anyway
for back then money was mighty damned tight.

Grandma lead the way
teaching us all the skill
of forgetting some dish
in the oven still on
even as we tried
not to emulate her acts.

But blood tells best
and is thicker than water
and every single year
one of us screws up
making the last dish
an extra crisply charred treat.

Grandpa used to ask, Are we now gods?
to receive the burnt offerings from the altar?
So we seek the truth of his question
by staging the event each and every year
in honor of Grandma's charcoal manufacturing family events
to the entertainment of those not immediately downwind.

Now this ain't sacrilegious
for we never banned folks
from our dining tables
all were welcome to sit
and partake the meal
and join us in laughing

As the alarm squeals
to let us all know
that dinner is done
and the fire department's here
pre-deployed for the trouble
when they saw us parking.

But we just laugh
and set out more places
knowing our family history!
as we say the grace
praying for strong breezes
to carry the smoke away.

Like Grandpa we ask, Are we now gods?
to receive the burnt offerings from the altar?
In truth its just this, we are forgetful
and leave a dish in too darned long
by genetic predestination set in motion by Grandma
and our distracting her at the wrong moment.

(12/11/2011  - Dyfedd Rex)

No, it was not that often, but frequent enough, and all of us added our own extra crispy creations over the years... But Grandma always seemed to be leading the way...